


the power of a hunter

by farrah_yondale



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series, 悪魔城ドラキュラ 闇の呪印 | Castlevania: Curse of Darkness
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Gen, cursing, i just wanted an excuse for st. germain and sypha to hang out, sex references, slight sypha x julia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farrah_yondale/pseuds/farrah_yondale
Summary: “Fuck me.”Not a particularly poetic phrase to be his last words. But succinct, at least. It encompassed all of what Trevor Belmont was feeling the moment before his death in one, cathartic release. It also just felt good. Personally, he would have loved to curse his murderer to his face, but bleeding out and all made it difficult for Trevor to chase after him.Instead, he lay on the cold, hard ground, feeling his fingers go numb and his head grow hazy.“At least wait till we get home.”





	the power of a hunter

**Author's Note:**

> As a note to anyone unfamiliar with the Curse of Darkness lore, it takes place 3 years after the events of the Netflix series/Dracula's Curse. It features these two pupils of Dracula called Devil Forgemasters. One of them is evil and naked and the other is the good guy you play as. Trevor and a bunch of other weirdos show up throughout the game to mess with you, but at some point the evil Devil Forgemaster gets Trevor from behind and stabs him. Canonically, he's saved by some witch-lady named Julia but I've been pissed about Sypha not showing up for the last 7 years so. Here's a fanfic.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this fuckery because I wrote this and I don’t even know what’s going on.

“Fuck me.”

Not a particularly poetic phrase to be his last words. But succinct, at least. It encompassed all of what Trevor Belmont was feeling the moment before his death in one, cathartic release. It also just felt good. Personally, he would have loved to curse his murderer to his face, but bleeding out and all made it difficult for Trevor to chase after him.

Instead, he lay on the cold, hard ground, feeling his fingers go numb and his head grow hazy.

“At least wait till we get home.”

If this was an angel coming to get him, Trevor wanted to file a complaint against God. He would have preferred something like, “It’ll be all right, Trevor. Where we’re going, there’ll be plenty of beer.” Instead he gets the angel with enough sass to put his wife to shame.

Or maybe it is his wife.

Trevor looks up. He can barely see with his vision going blurry, but yes. That’s definitely his wife. His blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sour-faced wife.

“Ugh,” he manages. “Sypha.”

“Can’t even keep your mouth shut when you’re dying, can you?”

She’s wearing her old Speaker robes, the ones that have been collecting dust in a wardrobe somewhere since she and Trevor settled down a few years back. Although settling down had a very loose definition in Sypha’s sense. She never strayed too far—apparently because she was worried he would die if she left him for too long, which was a pretty reasonable fear to have—but she still kept to wandering. It was her nomadic blood, according to her. Trevor didn’t particularly mind since he couldn’t keep still himself.

And look where that landed him.

Trevor tries not to scream in agony when Sypha burns the wound over his chest shut.

“Be grateful you’re a Belmont or you’d be dead by now,” she says, lifting him up as best as she can.

“If I weren’t a Belmont, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.”

Sypha ignores him and leans his body over her shoulder. Trevor can still walk—barely, if dragging his feet lazily along the ground counted as walking. But it’s at least enough so Sypha doesn’t have to drag him across the country to a doctor.

“There’s a witch in Baljhet Mountains who can heal you. You remember my friend Julia?”

“So did you say you’d fuck me when we got home?”

Sypha inhales sharply and then says, “This is why you got stabbed.”

Trevor can concede to that.

Even Trevor’s arrogant ass at some point realized that talking was only making his condition worse. Anyway, if asking if his wife would fuck him when they got home were his last words, they were a pretty damn good set of last words. He could die knowing that.

So Trevor lays his head on Sypha’s shoulder and lets her do all the work. Her skin is soft and rather flushed due to the stress he’s apparently put her under. His skin in comparison is a shade paler than hers—well, a few shades paler on account of the current blood loss and anemia.

“Ugh, Sypha,” he tries. Sypha gives a noncommittal grunt in response. “I’m sorry.”

“If you’re really sorry, then keep your mouth shut.”

A younger Trevor might have understood that as “You’re very annoying and if you want to thank me, then stop using words to annoy me,” but the older Trevor, the one that’s spent years making cheeky banter with her, knows better. She wants him not to exert himself and live through this. That’s how he can say sorry.

Trevor has never spent more time in his life walking. It’s a nightmare. Only now does he realize how grateful he is to be so spry and run about everywhere. Getting across one hallway takes minutes on top of painstaking minutes. By the time Trevor reaches this witch, Dracula would have died and risen again.

He also gains an appreciation for his wife’s patience. It takes him a good few seconds just to put one foot in front of the other, and through it all, Sypha’s face does not reveal even an inkling of irritation. She watches him carefully, encourages him forward occasionally, and drags him along the halls at his own pace.

Eventually, they reach outside. By that time, Trevor’s vision has become a little clearer, and his feet a little stronger. It looks like his body is starting to compensate a little for the blood loss. He might actually live through this.

“Have I ever told you I love you?” he says to his wife.

Sypha’s cheeks flush and she smiles reflexively. What he wouldn’t give to see that face all the time.

“You look beautiful when you smile.” Trevor’s grinning now. It’s a tease, but it’s also the truth.

“Stop,” Sypha insists, turning her face away.

“You love me,” he sings back.

“I’ll drop you.”

“No you won’t because you love me.”

“I do,” Sypha admits. “I can see you’re doing a lot better now. Think you can put a little more effort into your walk? You’re not exactly light.”

Trevor pouts at that and Sypha laughs.

There’s something about these mountains that seems off, however. More off than normal anyway. Sure, there are the usual skeletons coming to life to attack him—Sypha takes care of them with a fireball or two—but there’s something about the air that’s oppressive. Heavy, like it’s going to storm. He’s had this feeling before.

“That Devil Forgemaster…” Trevor says, sighing. “Hector or whatever his name was. He opened up Dracula’s castle.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sypha replies. “Inside.”

Trevor only now realizes the little cottage embedded in rock. Its colors blend in with the surroundings, to keep the place conspicuous, he supposes. He didn’t even notice it on his way through here.

“You’re not surprised?” Trevor asks, trying to open up the subject again.

“I’m a magician, I felt it.” Sypha raps her knuckles sharply on the door. “I know already. Hello, Julia,” she adds when the door swings open.

Trevor’s not exactly sure why at first this gentle-faced woman is giving them both a concerned look. Maybe she’s just worried about the half-dead warrior in Sypha’s arms. And then she presses her lips together, glances down and starts, “Uh…Sypha.”

When the couple share a perplexed look, Julia points down. The entire bottom half of Sypha’s robes are drenched in blood, some of which is currently dripping down the back of Trevor’s right calf. And then, to Trevor’s utter shock, Sypha plummets to the floor as if the ground had just opened up beneath them, laying limp as a rag doll at his feet.

 

“That’s what happens when you follow your husband into the depths of hell right after giving birth.”

Sypha says it like it’s the most mundane nuisance for a couple to encounter, like one of them had forgotten to put out the laundry or something. Her Speaker robes are in a bloody, balled up mess in a bucket Julia had dug out from her storeroom, and Sypha leans over a chair in a simple tunic and trousers, running a cloth over her legs to soak up the blood.

Right. Trevor had forgotten in his blood-loss haze. The only reason Sypha hadn’t tailed him earlier was because she had gone into labor just as they had both sensed some impending doom growing ever stronger on the horizon. Trevor didn’t actually want to leave—who the hell would want to miss the birth of their first child and leave their wife in such a horrific situation without any support? But he figured he wouldn’t have a wife or a child if he just let this curse get any stronger, so he explained to Sypha that he’d have to go.

Sypha responded first by telling him to go fuck himself. Then her contractions subsided and she calmed down enough to urge him to go. He had a point, after all, and she would do the same thing in his position.

“Who’d you leave the baby with?” Trevor tries not to grunt from the pain. He’s lying on Julia’s couch, in the most comfortable position he can manage with a chest wound, but it still hurts to move anything.

Sypha smiles. “Julia.”

Reflexively, Trevor tries to sit up, but fails when his muscles don’t move. The result is him twitching awkwardly and groaning from the pain.

“You…you brought the baby?”

“Well, you didn’t want me to just leave it at home, did you?”

“Where is it?”

There’s a brief pause as Julia returns to the room, bright blue bottle in hand. “Here,” she says. She kneels down over Trevor and cradles his head, pouring the contents of the potion into his mouth. Despite the raw taste of bile, he swallows and then lets out a little grunt.

The effects of the potion are immediate. He’s still in the worst pain of his life, but at least he can see clearly again, and he can move to sitting with Julia’s support.

Julia twists to face Sypha and holds up the bottle. “Do you need some?”

“No, I’m fine. It looks worse than it is. I think I just tore my stitches.”

“You can bleed out from wounds like that.” When Sypha gives her friend a suspicious look, Julia continues, “I’ve assisted in births before. Women have died from lacerations like that.”

Sypha looks unimpressed. “I’ll be fine. There’s something else I’d like you do to for me.” She doesn’t need to specify when that wide, eager smile is enough of a giveaway. Julia gives a faint smile herself before disappearing back into the room where she had pulled out a potion from. Trevor, despite his exhaustion, can’t help but feel incredibly excited. When Julia returns, it’s with a bundle in her arms.

Trevor marvels at first at how tiny it is. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen newborns before. There were plenty of them in his family before the Belmont clan had been banished and persecuted years ago, and there were certainly babies to play with in the village he and Sypha had settled in. But something about it being _his_ just made it all the more exciting. It was a baby. And it was _their_ baby.

“Sypha…” he whispers, as if it’s a secret he just uncovered. “We made a fucking baby.”

“Really?” Sypha’s eyes twinkle. “That’s what I’ve been carrying around for the last eight months?”

For once, Trevor has no reply to his wife’s sarcasm. He’s too fascinated by this tiny human that could easily fit in one of his palms. He pulls back the baby’s wrappings and stares at its silent, squashed face.

“Why’s he so ugly?”

“That’s what I said and the midwife slapped me.”

Julia sighs. “You’re both horrible.”

“It’s not dead, is it?” Trevor says, genuinely concerned. “It won’t move.”

“She’s a baby,” Julia interjects, apparently before she has to hear something else mortifying come out of either of their mouths. “She’s sleeping.”

There’s another brief silence, which consists mostly of Trevor still marveling at his newborn child. Julia takes the pause in their conversation to return to the front of her shop and busy herself with whatever it is she normally busies herself with.

“Why did you even have to run off?” Sypha says at first like a joke, teasing him, but there’s a note of concern in her voice. “You didn’t need to come here.” For a minute she just stares at him, lip quivering so faintly, Trevor’s not sure he would have been able to spot it a minute ago. She’s trying to keep the mood light, and her husband tries to honor that request.

“It’s unfair to start an argument with me in this condition.” A poorly misplaced joke. He shouldn’t have used his injury as part of it, but it’s too late for that. Sypha’s eyes swim briefly with tears before her face melts and she has to cover it with a hand. She doesn’t say anything or give an indication that she might be crying, but simply wipes her cheeks without making a sound.

“I’m sorry,” she inhales. Her voice is congested. “It’s the hormones.”

“No,” Trevor starts, voice gentle. “No, no. It’s not. You have every right—” But breaks off when Sypha shakes her head.

“Come here,” he urges, beckoning her with his free hand. Sypha says nothing for a minute, choosing instead to sit with her arms crossed and swallow her tears. Once she collects herself, she takes his hand and sits next to him, wrapping her arms around him and their child.

“You have every right to be upset with me.”

“No, I…I would have done the same thing. You did what you had to. It’s just…” Sypha’s voice breaks again, and Trevor has to hold back his own tears. “I’m not ready to stop hearing your voice, or feeling your hands or…”

Sypha seems to realize that if she continues, she’ll just become a crying mess and stops. She shakes her head in Trevor’s neck and squeezes him softly. After another deep swallow, she continues.

“It’s a heart injury, Trevor. You can’t strain yourself again. Please,” she whispers. “Please just let me do everything from now on.”

Trevor’s hand reflexively runs through her short, ruffled hair. She had offered to grow it when they had first gotten married if it pleased him. Trevor told her not to be stupid—she didn’t need to do anything like that. He didn’t want her to change anything about her. That included the wandering, the androgynous clothing, the magic. Even after having a child, he didn’t want any of that to change.

And now he’s afraid it might have to.

“Well, we can’t settle our arguments with a fight anymore, so I suppose I’ll have to agree.”

He gets a little chuckle out of her with that.

Sypha snakes her way out of her husband’s arms. Her eyes are still blotched red from holding back a cry, but she smiles despite it. “You should get some rest. I need to feed the baby, anyway.”

Trevor smiles, running his hand one last time through her hair before letting her and the baby go.

“We need to name her,” he says.

“We will. After you sleep.”

 

Julia’s shop had always had a coziness to it. Walls lined with books and parchment, the faint smell of incense, candle lights here and there, offering a warm glow to its surroundings, deep maroon and magenta carpets spread over the floors. It’s hardly changed since Sypha’s youth, and being back in it sets her at ease.

Sypha holds the teacup in both her palms, using the heat of her beverage to warm her cold hands. She takes a sip, revels in the scent of jasmine, and sets down her cup with a _chink_. She’s back in her robes now. After about fifteen minutes of deep scrubbing, Sypha had wiped the bloodstains out of her old robes and dried them with a carefully controlled fire spell.

“I can see your magic has improved, slightly.” Julia’s voice is a lilt. She sits on the opposite end of the table, hand in chin and gives her old friend a faint eyebrow raise.

“Don’t flirt with me when I’m married,” Sypha replies curtly.

“It was a mere observation and no more,” Julia insists.

Sypha looks over her tea with an eyebrow raise of her own and says nothing, hoping that’ll suffice as an answer. Julia says nothing in return and, _thank the heavens_ , lets Sypha actually drink her tea without prodding for once.

When she finishes the last of her drink, Sypha sets the cup down on its saucer and subconsciously begins running her thumb over the porcelain.

“You’re preoccupied,” Julia observes, glancing down at Sypha’s anxious finger. “You’re worried for him.”

“How astute of you to observe. Of course I’m worried.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s a Belmont, after all.”

“He’s still human.”

Julia tries to stifle a little chuckle. “Any man who can handle you can handle that injury.”

Sypha grins despite herself. “Are you saying I was difficult to handle?”

“Now who’s flirting?”

A resounding silence. Sypha spares a glance to the newborn sound asleep in the basket between her and Julia. A blessing that her husband had somehow survived and a blessing her child did not weep so much.

“This might set your heart at ease,” Julia chimes up. Her chair screeches against the wood as she pushes herself to standing. She gestures for Sypha to follow her behind the counter. Sypha sets her teacup down, glances once more at her baby and then follows Julia to the counter.

“Hm, let’s see.” Julia’s fingers run along the back wall, where an array of potions and tinctures sit on a shelf. Most are the same blue as the potion she conjured up earlier, but some of them are polished in bright reds or pinks, a few of which are engraved with designs. Her fingers finally settle over one that’s a deep scarlet, with a short inscription carved at the bottom.

Julia presents it to her with a crooked smile.

“It’s supposed to heal a broken heart. And it did _not_ help the young maiden who came sobbing into my shop in the middle of the night.” Julia shrugs. “So I’m assuming it means literally.”

“You’re assuming? And what if my husband starts shitting toads out of his ass?”

“You mean Belmonts don’t do that already?” Julia’s mouth hangs agape and her eyes widen in mock surprise.

Sypha gives her companion a playful punch to the shoulder, and Julia laughs. Her laugh is cut short as she catches sight of someone behind Sypha and sets the bottle down.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Julia says. “I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?”

The man is bald and wearing the robes of a priest, with high cheekbones and a crooked smile that makes Julia’s look positively endearing. He sways in place, dangerously close to the table where Sypha’s child sleeps. Sypha watches his gesturing, gloved hands carefully, afraid one of them might shoot out towards her infant’s neck and squeeze its life dry. They may have been distracted, but Sypha’s quite sure her hearing hasn’t deteriorated so much that she would have missed the entrance of this man.

She suspects he might not have used the door to get in here.

“Ah, ladies, didn’t mean to disturb.” His voice is light, in a clear contrast to his menacing tone. One of those waving hands lands on the handle of the basket. He glances down at the child and then at the two women and gives them a sly grin. “I was just giving this young Belmont here my blessings.”

“Step away,” Sypha snaps, throwing out her hand. Ice magic curls above her fingertips.

“Oh,” the man sighs, clicking his tongue. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His hand clenches over the handle of the basket. “You wouldn’t want ah, your child to get injured, would you?”

“Who are you?” Julia calls out.

The man ignores her and focuses his attention on the glowering magician before him instead. “Belnades, correct?” Sypha’s eyebrows twitch at the name. “Yes…I remember you.” He picks up the basket, and Sypha starts forward.

“My master will be needing a meal upon waking up. Although your…husband would make a finer one.” The man giggles, head leaning forward. “He’ll be with me soon enough. He doesn’t look long for this world, I’m afraid.”

A blade drops down from his sleeve. Silver and polished to perfection. Sypha doesn’t have to see the full length of it to recognize who it belongs to.

“Death,” she whispers.

“Indeed,” he says before slashing his blade through the air, tearing open the entrance to some unfamiliar realm, glowing red and with the faint stench of death reeking across its borders. Sypha only recognizes it as being a place where she would definitely _not_ want her newborn to go.

“Farewell.”

“No, no! You can’t—” Sypha’s lunge forward is cut short by Julia’s wrist around her arm. “Let go of me!”

As Death steps forward into the portal, Sypha tries to snake her way out of Julia’s grasp. By the time she does, by the time she bolts towards him, the portal snaps shut, leaving nothing but air behind.

A resounding thud echoes through the shop as Sypha’s knees collapse against the wood floor. Giving birth and trailing after a dying husband was enough of a strain for one day. _This_ was just completely unfair. Sypha’s nails screech against the floor as she clenches her fists. For a good moment, she just crouches there, letting adrenaline and anxiety overtake her body in silence.

 _Deep breaths, Sypha_ , she can almost hear her husband. She woke up smelling like sweat that night, her thrashing settled only by a pair of muscular arms that kept her still till she woke. Nightmares were no stranger to either of them. The things they saw and the tortures their bodies endured left scars. At her worst, she always remembered how strangely grounded Trevor could be when he needed to and remembered that lulling voice.

She inhales deeply and then stands.

“Look after my husband.”

“Sypha, no!” Julia insists. “You’re in no condition to fight.”

Just as she says this, the front door bangs open. Sypha, still harrowed from her encounter with Death, swivels around and extends a blue glowing hand.

The man who enters this time, however, looks the complete opposite of menacing. If anything, there’s a sense of urgency in his movements that compels Sypha to lower her hand and listen.

“Ah, uh, excuse me, pardon me!” He speaks in a flurry of words, hardly giving them a minute of pause to digest his presence. “Sorry for intruding, but I have very urgent…Oh…” The man swivels on his feet, turning his head back and forth as if searching for something he’s lost. “Where did she go?”

“Who?”

“Your baby Ms. Belnades, I—Oh, no, I’ve come too late, haven’t I?”

“Excuse me?” Julia says, but given who their previous visitor was, Sypha has a feeling she might know who this gentleman is.

“You’re a time-traveler,” Sypha points out.

“Ah, yes, yes, Ms. Belnades, it’s always such a pleasure to see you. Explanations are always so short with you. I’m afraid most people I interact with aren’t terribly perceptive. Ah!” he exclaims, gesturing a white-gloved hand at himself. “Allow me to introduce myself. Saint Germain.” He makes a quick bow and then gestures towards the door as if trying to beckon a dog out. “But please, please, we mustn’t tarry for too long. You do wish to save your daughter, don’t you?”

Sypha answers by turning back to Julia and repeating, “Take care of my husband. And you,” she adds to St. Germain, who gives her the look of a wounded puppy under her sharp gaze. “You owe me an explanation.”

 

“I was just about to leave,” St. Germain sighs, adjusting the collar of his waistcoat. “And then this happens.”

“Did you not foresee this at all?”

“Well, it was certainly a possibility but…not one that has occurred…before. I suppose because my ability to interfere with Hector’s curse and all caused a drastic enough change to lead to all this.”

When Sypha gives the man a questioning look, he explains, “Ah, well. You see. Zead, or rather, Death as you know him, was planning for Dracula’s curse to take hold of Hector, the uh, Devil Forgemaster.”

“I know of him.”

“Yes, well, in all my previous attempts I had failed to keep Death from manipulating Hector into doing his bidding. And this time, Death made an enormous miscalculation on my part. Enough for me to drastically alter the flow of time and keep the curse from taking hold of Hector. Enough to send Death into a frenzy and…I suppose he sensed your presence? Perhaps he thought coming after you might change something.”

“None of that makes sense, but it’ll do for an explanation.”

“Ah yes, well…” St. Germain trails off, looking a little dejected. He perks back up and adds, “You cut your hair. It looks quite lovely.”

“It’s always been short.”

“In this timeline, I suppose.”

Sypha doesn’t bother acknowledging that statement with a response. Speakers carry stories of time-travelers and almost all of them never fail to mention the quirks and oddities of said time-travelers. They say odd things, carry unusual objects, the whole of their person looks as strange and far in time as Dracula’s castle. So it’s best not to bother understanding them and just follow their advice.

St. Germain and Sypha make their way to where Trevor had lay dying. With the evening growing ever closer, the mountains are much colder than this morning. A chill breeze blows past and cuts through the wound between Sypha’s legs. She tries not to visibly flinch.

“You…are aware that I cannot interfere?” St. Germain muses, glancing suspiciously at her when he sees her flinch. “If that wound is bothering you…”

“I’m fine.” Sypha feels somewhat flustered under his scrutiny. She knows time-travelers held a whole host of knowledge, and the idea of this stranger knowing details of her life unnerves her.

The energy emanating off Dracula’s castle had only grown in its intensity. Sypha can feel it pulsing off the double doors of its entrance like the heat of a bonfire.

“Ah,” St. Germain fusses, rubbing his hands together. “If we don’t hurry, this time may be significantly altered.”

“In what way, exactly?” Sypha asks, jarring open the doors to Dracula’s castle. Its interior had puzzled Sypha this morning, since it bore no resemblance at all to its appearance three years ago. “Or is telling me out of the bounds of your agreement?”

St. Germain smiles at that, following her into the entrance hall of the castle. “I greatly appreciate how understanding you are. Truly, you are worthy of the Belnades name.”

“Stop that.” St. Germain’s endless praise is beginning to unsettle her.

“Ah, forgive me, Ms. Belnades. Anyway…” When Sypha begins to turn towards a staircase to their right, St. Germain veers left. “No, not that way! There’s an elevator over this way.”

Sypha follows him to a clearing. One of Dracula’s gardens? Sypha for the life of her could never understand the form or function that went into his interior design. Some rooms looked upside down the second time she entered them and others seemed to shift to different locations altogether.

At the center of the clearing runs a long marble pillar, the length of which disappears into a dark endless ceiling above her. St. Germain leads her to the opposite side. He pulls back a large metal scissor gate, which opens up to a small room that only barely fits the two of them inside.

Sypha steps onto the lush red carpet and watches in wonder as St. Germain navigates this moving room. Unlike most of Dracula’s old rooms, this one looks like its only function _is_ to move.

“I don’t remember this being here last time,” she says.

“Hm?” St. Germain answers, clicking a circular impression in the wall that glows once he presses it. “Renovations, I suppose. Can’t keep all the versions of this castle in my head straight.” His hand accidentally knocks against Sypha’s still pregnant abdomen and he hurriedly adds, “Sorry.”

He only looks more worried when she leans back against the wall and presses her thumb and forefinger to her forehead, as if coming down with a headache. She sighs.

“I rushed into this,” she sighs again. “Julia was right. I’m in no condition to fight.”

“I have full confidence in you, Ms. Belnades.”

Sypha gives him a weak smile. “For some reason when you say it, I believe you.”

“Well, I _am_ a time-traveler,” he points out, giving her a small grin in return.

She stares off at the iron door in front of her and croaks, “Mm, maybe if you told me what’ll happen if I don’t fight, it’ll motivate me more.”

“Your child will die,” he answers bluntly. “And along with her, so will your husband.” When she gives him a skeptical eyebrow raise, he continues, “I don’t need to be a time-traveler to tell you that, Ms. Belnades.”

“Wait, but what will my child dying have to do with the outcome of my husband’s survival?”

St. Germain chuckles. “You’d be surprised at the resilience of humans when they have a source of joy in their lives. Ah! We’re here.” The room rocks to a halt. St. Germain pulls back the gate to another circular room. Sypha watches him intently, still musing over his words.

She steps out, this time to carpet instead of grass, and lets St. Germain lead her to a door on their right. He stops to the side of it and faces her, contemplating whether he should give her another speech. But Sypha’s face reveals what he already meant to tell her: that Death lies beyond this door.

“Are you ready, Ms. Belnades?” he asks before jarring the door open.

“Do I have a choice?” she asks with a fretful sigh.

 

The room glows scarlet with magic. It’s not the type of energy Speaker magicians radiate or the benign presence of witch casts. It’s powerful, and so deeply off that Sypha has only felt this energy once before.

In the presence of Dracula.

“Ah, Belnades, so lovely to see you,” comes Death’s airy voice. He lifts up his free hand as if to present his accomplishments to her. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to entertain you.”

Sypha only briefly glances back to the brown woven basket in his hand and retorts, “How rude. Is that how you treat a guest?”

Death does not indulge her and disposes a dirty glare onto her before moving to leave.

Ice erupts from the floor, extending as a wall into the ceiling. It runs along the length of the room, blocking his only exit. Even with his back turned to her, Sypha can see him clench his fists.

“Really, I insist that you spend a little time with me,” Sypha hums, pressing two fingers to her forehead. “An old friend comes all this way just to see you and this how you treat her? You wound me, Death.”

There’s a brief silence. Sypha wonders if she’s pushed him too far. Then his fists unclench and he swivels around in his robes and gives her a wry smile and she _knows_ she’s pushed him too far.

“Forgive me, Belnades. I seem to have forgotten my manners.” A blade drops down again from his sleeve. “Shall I offer you a drink?” The blade curves, in an arc, landing, hovering just above the infant’s neck—

“No!” The shout is accompanied by a blast of ice-cold air. Death goes flying, colliding into Sypha’s ice wall with a grunt and thud, laying limp on the ground. As the basket falls from his hand, Sypha rushes forward and catches it, hugging it tight against her chest.

But she has hardly a second to revel in her child’s sweet, sleeping face before Death’s scythe sweeps towards her. Her first instinct is to pull the basket to the side, to the detriment of herself. She doesn’t account for the still unfamiliar girth of a postpartum abdomen and barely dodges. The blade scrapes her by, tearing a small hole through her robe and drawing a faint drop of blood.

A bead of sweat runs down Sypha’s face.

She glances briefly to her right, to where the door is.

“Thinking of escaping, are we?” Death lets out a light-hearted chuckle. “You could, you know?” He glances up at the ceiling where the seal of his magic glows red.

Sypha contemplates running. In this condition and with a child in her hand, it seems like the reasonable option.

But considering her own husband risked his life to stop all this madness, it would be a coward’s act to do so. If Death really does mean to resurrect Dracula, then it would be even more foolish to let him get away with it.

“And let you resurrect Dracula?”

Death gives her another bubbling laugh. “I’ve as good as done it.” When he outstretches his free hand, it’s no longer a disguise of human flesh, but his true form. Long, spindly fingers of bone rusted with areas of black eschar. Above it hovers fire.

Sypha refrains from cursing and tries to focus on not being burned alive with her child. When Death releases the spell, it comes colliding towards the floor like a meteor and sends a wall of fire her way. There’s no escape from this. As a last resort, Sypha raises an arm in an attempt to part the fire away from her, hoping that his magic responds to hers.

It works, but by the time his spell evaporates, the man in the priest robes is gone. In his place hovers a skeleton shrouded in tattered gray cloth. His scythe is now apparent, no longer hidden as half a blade protruding from a sleeve. Spirits of the dead circle around him. This is the Death Sypha remembers from three years ago.

“I tire of this,” Death sighs, his voice a grainy echo from somewhere afar. “If you wish not to be served as a fresh meal for my master, then so be it. He’ll enjoy you cold just as well.”

He brings down his scythe in a wide arc, the point of it colliding against the floor with a thud. Sypha dodges and tries to remember how she and Grant and Trevor and Alucard had defeated him years ago.

For some reason, it feels like it’s been so much longer.

Again and again, Death brings his scythe down on her, slicing in unrelenting strokes and arcs that Sypha only manages to dodge half-instinctually. The muscles in her legs are screaming for her to stop. The blood loss, the exertion on a body that had hardly recovered from labor, the general stress of fighting the grim reaper—all of that begins to take its toll on Sypha’s vision. Death looks less and less like a corporeal being and more like a series of blurs and black-red patterns that blend in with the walls.

After perhaps a dozen attempts, Death’s scythe finally connects with Sypha’s shoulder. The gash is deep, burning, probably cursed and sends Sypha screeching with a spurt of blood on the floor.

With her vision going and her body numb, Sypha can barely see anything. Even so, the flame in Death’s palm is unmistakable. The same fireball he sent out earlier undulates in his palm, till he releases the spell and sends another crash of unavoidable fire blasting Sypha’s way.

With concerted effort, Sypha raises her hands, wrists dropped, and diffuses the fire that surrounds her.

At this point, Sypha is out of options. She barely has the strength to fight and even less to run.

In a last-ditch effort, Sypha consults the third and rarely used of her elements. Fire and ice were her trademarks, but lightning was difficult to control, required skill and stamina that could only be mastered with serious training. It’s something Sypha hasn’t used in ages and will, more likely than not, weaken her to the point of not being able to stand if it doesn’t kill her first.

But at this point, she’s likely to die, anyway.

Sypha sets her basket behind her, far enough away where sparks won’t reach and presses the tips of her fingers together. She inhales, lets the strength of electricity send impulses to her hands, along every nerve that courses through her body. Her body begins to glow yellow as the lightning spell charges.

Death seems to realize his weakened mouse-meal’s trump card a little too late. By the time he swings his scythe again at her, Sypha releases a bolt of lightning directly at him, so powerful it knocks the weapon out of his hands. The room quivers as the heat connects and sends sparks dancing along the length of Death’s shroud.

Death screams, stunned, and then there’s a flash of white light.

When the light fades, Death’s true form is gone, and in his place lays the mortal man in the priest robes again.

So she hadn’t managed to kill him even with that, is Sypha’s last thought before she collapses.

She wants to go to sleep. The ground is cool and so much more comfortable than any bed she’s ever laid on. Part of her tries to compel her to get up and move before Death regains consciousness. But most of her aches and throbs with pain, and she’d rather die here than make the effort to get up.

She has no energy left in her and has to hope this Devil Forgemaster will be able to take care of Death when she can’t.

Her baby begins to wail. And suddenly that small sliver of her mind that wanted her to move becomes stronger, and she wills herself to crawl over to the basket. The wailing ceases as her hand grips the handle, almost as if her child only cried to will her to move. It doesn’t matter. Now Sypha knows she has to get up. So she does. She pushes herself to standing, limps her way back when she can manage more than a crawl, and watches her small child sleep soundly in her arms.

Sypha has never wanted to open a door more in her life. She jerks open the entrance to Dracula’s castle and stumbles over the steps.

Outside, the air is cool and bites at her cheeks. It’s not cold, Sypha knows, but her body has lost so much blood today that any gust of air feels like winter. She grips the basket tighter in her hands and wills herself forward. _Her baby, her baby needed her_. Every step forward is like fighting a sea of monsters that pull at her legs and weaken her muscles.

A few paces off from Julia’s shop, Sypha collapses headfirst into dirt.

“Sypha!” is the last thing she hears before everything around her goes black.

 

On one of Julia’s sofas lays Trevor. On the other, Sypha, set a meter apart from her husband by a carpet. Both of them are limp, completely unmoving. And both of them are awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, brows furrowed slightly in pain. Most of the sweat has evaporated off Trevor’s face by now, but Sypha is still drenched in it from the recent physical exertion.

The ultimate husband-wife experience.

“This kid is gonna kill us both,” Trevor finally manages with a grunt.

Sypha replies with a moan.

“Sypha, bring me the baby.” It’s supposed to be a demand, but it loses most of its effect when Trevor’s voice hardly passes for a pathetic croak.

“Come here and get it yourself,” Sypha croaks back.

“I can’t move. I have a heart injury. You come here.”

“Excuse me?” There’s a sudden rush of energy in her voice. “I gave birth, tailed after your ass because you couldn’t wait a few hours for me, hauled your bleeding body across the mountains and then fought Death single-handedly. And you want me to come there?” Sypha snaps her fingers and gestures to herself. “You come here.”

“All right, all right!” Julia calls, shuffling hurriedly into the room. “No need to fight, you can just call me over.”

Both husband and wife concede. Neither of them are in a state to argue. Julia plucks the baby off of Sypha’s chest and places it over Trevor’s. She leaves the room just as hurriedly as she had entered, explaining, “I need to go. I’ll be back,” before disappearing behind a curtain.

There’s a long silence. Most of it consists of them listening to the hushed sigh of candlelight flames and staring some more at the ceiling. Trevor only turns his head when his wife lets out a small gasp.

“Oh my God, Trevor.”

“What?”

“We’re parents,” she whispers in realization.

Trevor faces back up towards the ceiling. “Shit, you’re right.”

There’s another silence between them. Trevor spends it running his hand over the soft form of his baby’s head. He glances back towards his wife, whose eyes are now closed. She’s paled to the point where Trevor looks more flushed than her, her hair disheveled and slicked out of her face with sweat. Her robes look more brown and red than blue at this point.

“God, I love you,” he says.

He can see her smile from over here. “Why?” she asks in a tone that’s clearly begging to be showered in compliments.

“Who else gets to brag that their wife gave birth and then carried them out of Dracula’s castle? And then ran after Death and beat him up for kidnapping their kid? You’re amazing.”

Sypha hums with a sheepish grin over her face. “I know.” She rolls off the couch and drops down to the floor.

“I’m crawling to you,” she explains when she sees a nervous look flash through his face.

“Don’t exert yourself.”

“Could have said that _before_ I fought Death.”

When she reaches his couch, she clambers up next to him, practically on top of him given how little space there is for a second person. She wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his neck. Her nose is cold against his skin, and Trevor tries not to shiver or she’ll notice and pull away.

Instead, he tries to focus on the tiny human between them. It’s still sound asleep, clearly undisturbed by all the carnage surrounding its birth. Its squashed face is beginning to look a lot cuter given the circumstances.

“Oh my God, Trevor,” Sypha says a second time. When he turns to look at her, he realizes his vision is blurred. “Are you crying?”

Trevor doesn’t respond as he presses his fingers to his eyes and wipes the tears out of them. Sypha lets out a soft laugh of pity and kisses his cheek.

“I love you both a lot, okay?” he sniffs.

Sypha hums and buries her face back into his neck.


End file.
